Page 37 of The Worst of Them

Jack had disappeared from the quarterdeck and now stood next to his father, his eyes cool. But there was no anger or irritation, no shock or pity. He was listening, wholly focused on every word she said.

Morgyn shook her head, her face white. “Cecily⁠—”

“Spite and revenge spared my life,” Cecily spat. “Now they sustain it. I’m sure you killed today, driven by coin and your own benefit—but I kill for conviction. I didn’t even need a sword the first time, but to save my friend, it was merely a convenience. I would have done it just as easily with my bare hands.”

The truth of it struck her so hard that she paused. She’d really only said it to scare Morgyn, but how monstrous she would become to protect herself and her friend…that was true, and she was glad for everyone to know it.

“I am still cold,” she said with quiet fury. “If I seek to warm myself with blood, then I shall. And even if I should find warmth in the first mate’s bed, I am no one’s whore.” She took a second to catch her breath and let the declaration settle. “Now tell me. Where is my cowardice?”

Morgyn only turned her face away, and Cecily knew she’d won. The women wouldn’t look at her, and the men stared in shock. Copson remained cool and impassive.

Beside the captain, Jack suppressed a smile.

Cecily was the first to move, turning from Morgyn like she wasn’t worth any more of her time. The moment she did, and others began to shift, heading for the lower decks and carrying loot back to the Fortuna Royale. Greyson pulled Hester back toward the pirate ship, and she followed, her head bowed.

And then only Copson and Jack remained, waiting in the middle of the deck. Cecily came to stand before them and let her sword clatter to the deck with a tinny rattle.

“I broke your order,” she told the captain, already missing the weapon in her hand. But in this she must yield. She’d risen over one to win fear, but now she had to bow to another in the hope she might earn his respect. “Hester would’ve died if I hadn’t.”

Copson’s eyes were stormy gray as he assessed her. She weathered his gaze, resolutely ignoring Jack.

Even if I should find warmth in the first mate’s bed, I am no one’s whore.

She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye for at least a week.

“Where did you learn to fight?” Copson finally asked.

“My father was a master swordsman,” she answered. “He sparred with me daily.”

She hadn’t spoken of him since his death, and doing so was like an arrow to the chest. The edges of her lips dipped, and she drew in a steadying breath.

Copson asked, “And your mother?”

“Dead, sir.” Thankfully her voice didn’t waver. “Since I was a child.”

He eyed the bloody sword at his feet, appearing as cruel and withholding as always. After a moment, he stepped forward and brought his head next to hers. The crew nearby cast uneasy glances their way, but whatever scolding it might’ve seemed she was getting was fabricated entirely by their imaginations.

The captain spoke so quietly that she barely heard the words, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” When he pulled back, his tone was cutting. “You attacked a fellow crew member and broke my law. It’ll come out of your wages. Don’t defy me again, Miss Shoard. Second chances are rare, and there will not be another.”

She nodded once. “Aye, sir.”

Jack’s gaze bored into the side of her face and, eager to be free of it, Cecily turned away and disappeared below deck to do as she’d been told.

9

WHAT SHE DESERVES

Cecily had a new coat.

It was long and red with silver buttons and blue trim, certainly more expensive than she would have ever been able to afford. She felt positively resplendent in it, as though she wore one of the fine silk gowns she imagined in her little home each night.

She had taken it from the merchant ship before Copson sank it, so she didn’t feel badly that it was stolen. In fact, she felt rather light as the day faded into evening. There was no longer tension on the Fortuna Royale, and Cecily carried herself with surefooted confidence, as though what had transpired with Morgyn was of little consequence to her.

Despite Copson’s fine, she was oddly relieved. More so than she had expected. Even if she’d been a little more dramatic than necessary, the truth of what she’d said and done remained—she was a mass murderer, and she’d kill again if she had to, even though she dreaded the day she’d soak her hands in more blood.

As a relaxed evening fell into peaceful night, Cecily stood alone behind the foremast to watch the stars emerge, her thoughts pulling toward her father. She usually tried not to think of him, fearful of tainting his memory with all that had happened since he’d passed—he would have died all over again had he known what became of her. And now that Copson had brought him to the forefront of her mind, grief began to seep through a crack in her chest.

She had never fully faced it and still wasn’t ready to, so she floated on the surface of those feelings as a silent tear slipped down her cheek. It wasn’t really crying, but there was pain in there—so much pain she wouldn’t dare touch.